Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
The great fantasy remains: to walk through the vaunted halls of our great museums and manses and, as we pass memorial portraits of leaders gone by – the great captains of industry, men of history and renown, popes and presidents – reach into the frame, drag them out of their painted slumber, and mercilessly beat their faces until the very earth itself stops spinning.
These motherfuckers think they're gonna win.
You're familiar with those automated baseball pitching machines? The voters of Colorado have just decriminalized them.
Americans have decided each family needs an eternally burning, open pit, tar fire in front of their dwelling, lest they face substantial fines. Garbage, old computer monitors and all the children's drawings are to be regularly thrown into the pit without mercy.
It was either this or literacy programs.
It's nights like these that I wish Sandpaper Charlie was real. If only he weren't just a story made up by the Mayor's henchmen to distract us from their dealings, from their betrayal. Like many others, I've got the urge to be taught the piano. All in one go. I want to learn how to play the grand concert piano in a single, eight hour session. Sandpaper Charlie could've done it. He'd make sure I didn't take any breaks, that I'd keep my shoes on and I'd know when to spit. We need someone who lines his jacket with 16-grit sandpaper and always has the right idea. Someone who can count to ten, who can climb up rope ladders despite their freestanding, unanchored, unpredictable, unreliable nature. They go every which way! We need someone who could show us how...
Embalming as a hobby.
The modern escalator.
The terror of encephalopathy.
Erskine Bowles disorder.
Eudora the Liar.
The awful old men of English Literature.
Underwater exegesis maneuver.
The Elm Tree’s revenge.
I dreamt of the Missouri Cheese Caves again. The keeper there, a man by the name of Wallace, had recently endured another amputation. With but one ear and one good ankle left, he hobbled over to me and took me by the wrist “These cheeses, my boy. They are here many years. Forgotten by life. They are sharp. They have flavor. THEY ARE BIG AS ME!” As he yelled, the cheese spears dangling above shuddered. “But their edges, they are green. They – the cheeses – they are here too long. They are here for a reason,” he continued. The ever-present accordion music grew tighter in the distance. “These cheeses are here because you wish to forget them. You built them. Great teams – teams of MEN – worked together to make them strong. But you think...
You will not get it right the first time. This is a process. Properly hanging a motorcycle-on-fire-and-jumping-over-a-skeleton-viking-party poster is a skill developed over months, if not years. Your initial concern is not straightness or how much of the British hair cuts poster this one covers, but avoiding trapping a live mouse behind it.
